Think it’s possible to write 1k just purely about rimming? No plot, unless by plot you mean: delicious rimming lol 😂 aka Lex has no shame
Thank you for the prompt 👀😂 I hope you enjoy! (thanks @keyflight790 for betaing ❤)
Drarry | 1.5k | Explicit | Rimming, PWP, Established Relationship, Porn With Feelings, Light Bondage | Read on AO3
“Is it okay like this?” Draco’s voice is soft and low as he caresses the rope that he’s just tied around Harry’s wrists.
“Aha,” Harry replies, voice slightly muffled by the pillow. “’S perfect.”
Draco hums. Rearranges the pillow over Harry’s forearms, shifts on the bed, and places a small kiss between Harry’s shoulder blades.
Then there’s silence, and Draco’s hands are gone for a few moments. Harry’s skin tingles with how exposed he feels like this: blindfolded, face against the pillow and arms tied underneath it, knees bent against the warm duvet, arse lifted up in the air. Waiting to be used.
He thinks he hears Draco murmur beautiful, and then he feels the softest of touches to the side of his waist, moving up, up and around him until it’s brushing his nipple. Harry bites his lip and pushes down, seeking more friction against it; but the light touch is gone in a second, and he’s left with a whine buried deep in his throat.
Another touch follows, fingertips playing with the hairs of his thigh as they make their slow, teasing way up to the curve of Harry’s arse, the dip of his column, and then the muscles above his shoulder blades. Draco’s other hand rests beside it then, and he massages Harry lightly, thumbing the knots in his muscles until Harry is relaxing with a sigh, his face burying further into the pillow.
Draco massages him everywhere he can reach: head, neck, calves, feet. He takes his time with it, ignoring Harry’s small gasps when, upon changing position, Draco teases him with passing touches to the inside of his thighs, his nipples, his lower stomach.
Draco touches him, and all Harry can do as he feels himself slowly harden is breathe through it, imagining how he must look like this: wanton and helpless, hips snapping lightly as his cock twitches, face melting into the bed.
When Draco starts massaging his arse, Harry begs lowly for more. His plea is met with a chuckle; with Draco leaning over him and stroking his cheek with soft knuckles, leaning down to kiss the curve of his back, and then proceeding with his careful massage, fingers coming tantalisingly close to his cleft but never quite touching it.
“Please, god,” Harry breathes again when Draco spreads him open with his thumbs just right and pleasure shoots through his every nerve. Knowing that Draco is watching—watching him clench and unclench from the pull of his thumbs, watching him whimper, pant, writhe as his cock searches for friction—makes him shiver. He pushes back against Draco’s hands, repeats, “Please,” and then, “please, love,” knowing that the endearment will drive Draco crazy, that it will make Draco’s eyes fill with lust as he watches Harry beg for him.
“Shh, now, darling,” comes Draco’s beautiful, beautiful voice. There’s a kiss to his waist, a hand massaging, lovingly, on his lower belly, fingers ghosting over the coarse hair underneath before retreating again. Then Draco is kissing and lapping the sensitive back of his thigh, just below his arsecheeks, and Harry buries his face in the pillow and pushes his arse up, up until Draco’s hands are gripping his waist to keep him in place, thumbs stroking his lower back, tongue hot and wet as it torments the inside of his thigh. The tip of it brushes—barely—at the shaft of Harry’s cock, and he moans deep and desperate into the pillow.
Not being able to see, to move, to do anything but kneel there and take it all and imagine what he must look like right now—what Draco must look like right now—is as infuriating as it is intoxicating. It makes every sound and every touch reverberate through Harry’s skin as though amplified; makes every brush of fingers tear a moan out of him. Makes Draco’s hands holding him close, Draco’s tongue worshipping every corner of his body, feel like the only anchor to the world around him. Harry loves it, craves it, and he knows Draco knows just how badly he does, because Draco won’t stop stroking him, gently, reverently, fingers warm and strong along his waist and calves and feet as he scrapes his teeth to the sensitive skin just above the backs of Harry’s knees and then kisses his way back up Harry’s quivering thighs.
The scent of their shower still lingers in the room, but Harry can already make out the smell of his own sweat.
After sucking a hard, loud kiss to the inside of Harry’s thigh, Draco finally, finally moves up and presses his tongue to Harry’s balls—properly so. Harry keens, the jolt of pleasure so unexpected that his hands jerk under the pillow, desperate to pull at Draco’s hair, to touch himself, to touch anything.
But he can’t. All he can do is feel the heat spreading through his body as Draco’s palms move up his sides, caressing his chest, his collarbones, his waist, in soothing movements. All he can do is breathe through the shivers of pleasure that run through him as Draco takes his balls in his mouth and sucks on them, making all kinds of filthy noises that echo Harry’s own.
“Mmmmh,” Harry cries, high-pitched and loud, cheek pressed into the pillow as he gasps for air. “I—love you so much, ah, mmh.” And then he buries his face in the pillow again, shuddering, because Draco has let go of his balls and is lapping at his cock, pulling it toward him with long fingers so he can take the tip of it into his mouth in a wet, hot, sucking kiss that lasts but a second before he’s leaving a path of light kisses up the length of Harry’s shaft.
And then he keeps kissing him, higher and higher, and Harry loses all trace of coherence when Draco’s hands find his buttocks again and part them, and Draco gently, oh so gently thumbs his asshole open and traces the outside of it with the tip of his tongue.
“Yes—” Harry gasps, barely processing the sound of the loving kisses Draco is pressing all over his arse because Draco is moving his thumbs in small circles just outside of his rim the way Harry likes it, and then he’s pressing the flat of his tongue against his perineum, warm and wet, and oh, god—
Harry holds his breath, going still save for the quivering of his legs.
The tip of Draco’s tongue is there, unmoving. Pressing against his rim so subtly he can barely feel it.
That is, of course, until Draco’s hands clench around his waist and Draco slowly, slowly increases the pressure, threatening to breach him.
“Ahhh,” comes a weak, restrained moan as Harry slowly releases his breath—releases the tension of his body. Then Draco’s tongue twitches ever-so-slightly, and he’s almost inside Harry, but not quite, and Harry lets the rest of his breath out in a puff against the pillow, gasping, babbling more, and again, and please, Draco, god, ahh—
“You are magnificent,” Draco says against his skin, a grin in his words, and then he is devouring Harry, tongue flicking and pushing and then retreating minutely so that the tips of Draco’s thumbs can inch inside him, the pull delicious.
“More,” Harry pleads into the darkness, cock throbbing and leaking. Draco complies, his mouth hot and wet and perfect as he fucks him with his tongue and thumbs, and fuck, the pillow is also hot and wet under Harry’s open mouth, he realises. With a whimper, he drags his cheek to a dry spot of the pillow and then pushes his body back into Draco’s curse and blessing of a mouth. Draco hums in reply, pressing his tongue into Harry again as he lets go of one of his arsecheeks and cups Harry’s balls, wetting them with the spit that’s rolled down while he massages them slowly. Teasingly.
“More, more,” Harry cries out, spreading his legs as much as he can, fearing he’ll implode if he doesn’t get release right fucking now—
Draco seems to take the hint, because a moment later his wet hand is around Harry’s cock, pumping it hard and slow as his cheeks press into Harry’s arse, tongue flicking around his remaining thumb, and he’s moaning against Harry, loud and breathless and delicious, and Harry’s toes are curling, his open mouth soaking the pillow once more as he finally comes through a stretched-out groan.
Draco retreats when Harry’s groan dies down and turns into ragged breaths, but his hands remain on Harry, stroking his stomach, his chest, his waist. Squeezing his calves, caressing the backs of his thighs, his touch warm. When Harry collapses on the bed, Draco carefully removes his blindfold and starts working on the rope around his wrists. Harry keeps his eyes closed a moment longer, still coming down from it. He opens them, though, when Draco finishes untying the rope and reminds him in a murmur to roll his wrists and shoulders.
Draco looks beautiful, face flushed and hair unkempt, smiling at him in that unique way of his that is as cheeky as it is loving.
Though exhausted, Harry sits up and complies, stretching his body lazily and leaning his shoulder against Draco’s chest.
“All good?” Draco asks, dropping a kiss on his temple.
“All good,” Harry smiles. Resting his hand on Draco’s thigh, fingers ghosting over the tented fabric of his pants, he leans into a proper kiss and adds against Draco’s lips, “My turn to take care of you.”
